


One Way Glass: Shattered

by idinink



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Do not collect $100, Do not pass go, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Rape, Rape Recovery, This is not the droid you're looking for, all john wants is to do the right thing, but sometimes there is no right thing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-11
Updated: 2016-08-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 01:33:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6218404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idinink/pseuds/idinink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Elias," John said, barely, "you really should kill me now."</i>
</p><p>
  <i>"No, John," Elias said. "I won't kill you. You and Harold are going to walk out of here today. And you are both going to do so with the knowledge that I can imagine something you can't. That if you force me to do so, I can find something you can't endure."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [One Way Glass](https://archiveofourown.org/works/757350) by [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/pseuds/astolat). 



> So I was rereading Astolat's breathtaking portfolio of POI fic. The first ~1500 words of this are almost entirely theirs. 
> 
> But when I read this story again an evil alternate-plot bunny bit me. Hard. And I surrendered to it. Because I am a terrible person and my soul is made of trash. 
> 
> There is some comfort after the hurt, some light at the end of the tunnel… even what some might call a happy ending. But you have been warned.

...

 

Elias was waiting for him in the small dark observation room, hands clasped behind his back. Harold was on the other side of the one-way glass, sitting on the bare narrow bed inside the brightly lit cell. He was sitting straight, shoulders back, eyes on the door; his face was expressionless. He was still fully dressed, suit neat, tie snug.

John couldn't help the tightening of relief in his gut. Seeing Harold alive, unharmed, made him feel better. But that was stupid: Elias had four men in the room at this moment, all armed, all wary, and John had spotted another two in the hallway. The bindings on his arms were secure: good ropework, elbow to wrist, behind his back, and looser loops hobbling his ankles. He had no weapons, no opportunities. If Elias wanted to kill them —

"The thing is," Elias said, turning towards him, "I really don't want to kill you, John. You or Harold. The two of you do good work. Honorable work. You save innocents. You make this city a little bit brighter. A little bit kinder." He smiled Charlie Burton's warm smile. "Harold plays a mean game of chess."

John didn't answer him, didn't respond. Elias studied his face a moment more. "I'm even prepared to tolerate the occasional operating costs associated with your work. On occasion I've even been of direct help to you. Really, I think I've been more than reasonable, John. But this — this was gratuitous."

"You were running guns through the Seaport," John said. "And you were going to kill an innocent man for finding out."

"Now they'll be running through New Haven," Elias said. "And we gave Mr. Wasio every opportunity to cooperate. I hope you know that if you'd made him disappear, if you'd even contacted me, brokered some kind of arrangement, we wouldn't be here. Frankly, even if you'd just taken out the guns. But you couldn't leave it at that. Instead, you went for the kill. Half of my dockside operations, ruined."

"Sorry to hear that," John said. "I thought it was more like three-quarters."

Elias was shaking his head slow, a pendulum swinging. "I make this city cleaner too, John," he said. "I hoped that maybe we had gradually come to an understanding. That you'd developed a sense of proportion about crossing my path."

"No," John said, and left it at that.

Elias nodded. "Right. But like I said, I don't want to kill you or Harold. Killing you wouldn't even be an adequate punishment, really, because you're both completely prepared to die at any time — something, by the way, which I admire tremendously. But that means a threat to your lives has no force. So what I need you to understand, John, is that there are worse things I can do to you than kill you."

He turned to the small cell, to Harold sitting there quiet and compact under the glare of the hot lights, and John felt a slow terrible clenching in his gut.

"Here's what's going to happen, John," Elias said. "We're going to untie your arms and escort you inside that room." He indicated the cell through the glass with one finger. "And there, you are going to rape Harold."

John stared at him. Elias turned around. His face was still wearing a veneer of calm reason, untroubled. "You aren't going to say a word," Elias said. "You won't explain, you won't say anything. Or, alternatively," he added, gesturing to the chair standing in front of the glass, "you can have a seat here, and the two gentlemen you saw out there in the hallway will go in and do it instead, while you watch."

John didn't move, didn't breathe. The two men on either side of him were holding his upper arms, tight. He couldn't have made it to Elias — not even with teeth, he couldn't get the fifteen seconds it would take to lock his jaws, rip open the jugular.

"It's up to you, John," Elias said. "I should mention, however, that both of those gentlemen have loved ones who've gone to prison for several years as a result of your most recent work, and I wouldn't expect them to have much consideration for Harold's comfort."

John stared past him at Harold, small in the open space of the room, pale, his face showing nothing. Harold would flinch when they pushed him down, held him down; when he realized what Elias's men were going to do to him. He wouldn't be expecting it. But after that, he'd — he'd go stoic, his face rigid, the way it got when he hurt himself working, one of the old injuries —

"Elias," John said, barely, "you really should kill me now."

"No, John," Elias said. "I _won't_ kill you. You and Harold are going to walk out of here today. And you are both going to do so with the knowledge that I can imagine something you can't. That if you force me to do so, I can find something you can't endure. So that you keep that knowledge clearly in your minds, the next time you're faced with a similar situation."

John didn't move. He already knew what was going to happen. He could do this, for Harold. He was going to go in there, and he was going to carefully, gently, force Harold down onto the bed — Harold would struggle at first, bewildered, then horrified; John was already thinking how he'd immobilize him. And then he’d — do it, quickly.

And afterwards, once he'd gotten Harold safely back to the library, he was going to arm himself, go out and find Elias, and kill him. He'd be killed in the process, almost certainly, but that was acceptable. It was, actually, the only thing that would make this endurable.

"Have you decided?" Elias asked.

"I need a condom," John said.

"In the nightstand by the bed," Elias said. He nodded to his men. John felt them start to work open the knots. "Just so there are no misunderstandings," Elias added, as they untied him, "if some mischance should occur right now and you should be killed before you get in there, those men will be going in your place after all. I promised them retribution, one way or another."

John breathed deep. Feeling was prickling back into his fingers and arms as they unwound the cords. He looked through the glass at Harold, waiting, _waiting,_ and he said, "Elias. You don't — you don't have to do this. The point is made. If you want an apology — "

"Sorry, John," Elias said. "It's too late for that.” He raised a hand, rolling something small between his finger and thumb: Harold’s earbud. He smiled as he slipped it into his own ear, tapped it, then pointed at John’s, still snugly in place. “Just in case you need to be reminded of the rules.”

Elias nodded to the other men, and they turned him and took him out, into the hallway, past the two sullen, cold-faced men — big, heavily-built — and pushed him up to the door. There was a snub hard muzzle in the small of his back, and it might as well not have been there; the _men_ were the gun, what they'd do to Harold. John shut his eyes and breathed deep. Harold would know the truth, before John died. It wouldn't make this any less a betrayal, any less horrible, but — he'd know.

He pushed open the door and went in. Harold's eyes widened, and he stood up, relief in his face like a blow; John flinched from it, nauseated. "John," Harold said, and then stopped, as if he'd already understood something was — wrong. John forced himself to move, not to think. He had to do this fast, or he wouldn't be able to do it at all.

He crossed to Harold and took him by the shoulders and moved him towards the bed. Harold stumbled a little, caught himself, and then moved with him, letting John push him down — _trusting_ —

John's hands were shaking. He kept his eyes fixed on Harold's chest. He gripped the bottom of Harold's shirt, jerked it up, out of his trousers. He had to — he had to unbutton Harold's trousers, then he could push Harold face-down, and — no. The first button. That was the mission objective. Nothing else; the first button. He made his hands move towards Harold's fly.

Harold went still. He was staring. John didn't look at his face. The button. His hands were shaking, and the buttons were snug, _fuck_ Harold's bespoke suits, and this one was new, he'd only started wearing it a month ago, pleased when John had noticed, had said, _Nice, Finch. I like the purple stripe_ — John was tasting salt, and he couldn't get the fucking button _open_ —

Harold's hands closed on his: lightly, not restraining. "Allow me," he said quietly.

John stopped. Harold unbuttoned himself, then after a brief look at John’s face sat on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes, which he stowed neatly under the cot. The trousers followed, Harold shaking them out and laying them over the nightstand, folded along the crease. He turned to look questioningly at John, white shirttails hanging crumpled and listless over silvery boxers and argyle socks.

“Any time, John,” said Elias’s voice in John’s ear.

John’s hands moved to his own belt, his eyes on Harold’s face, willing him to understand before he had to move closer, touch him, _show_ him. Harold’s eyes grew big, filling up the small round lenses of his glasses. John ducked his head, grimacing against the tears that sent his own hands swimming before his eyes as he fumbled with the buckle, then moved on to his fly.

“Mr Reese?” Harold said. “Will you... _can_ you please tell me—”

John jerked his head in a vaguely negative motion, teeth clicking against words he couldn’t say.

“John,” Elias chided. “Out of respect to your intelligence, I didn’t stipulate my rules down to the _letter_. Because I trust you to understand their _spirit._ Isn’t that what you and Harold are all about? The spirit of the law? It’s not as if your recent interference in my affairs was done through _legal_ methods, after all. Maybe I didn’t make myself clear: my men are very eager for revenge and I’m expending considerable energy keeping them in line. Consider this arrangement... a compromise. To spare Harold a much crueler fate. Please don’t force me to rescind the offer.”

While Elias spoke, Harold had run the equations and drawn his conclusions. His face had engaged lockdown mode: he understood now what it was John had to do. John could read it in the set of his jaw, in the fine trembling that had started in his knees. When he turned toward the cot John caught a glimpse of scarring on his bad leg, the edges of curved white marks not quite covered by his boxers. He stumbled, barking a shin, but managed to twist and sit before he fell.

He gripped his trembling knees. But his hands were trembling now too, and only compounded the shaking. He grabbed for the edge of the mattress instead.

Taking a series of slow, deep breaths, Harold removed his jacket, loosened his tie, undid two buttons of his collar. The fragile skin of his neck was flushed and pebbled with goosebumps. He opened his vest too — a jaunty spring print in lilac and ivory — but kept it on, the shiny back still snug around his shoulders and waist, protective.

John’s pants were open now. He moved to the nightstand. Inside the drawer there was a roll of condoms, just like Elias said. Lubricated, mercifully.

“I don’t understand... why this...” Harold began, monotone, staring at the floor. “But. I know you wouldn’t be doing it unless it was absolutely necessary. And I—” Harold’s voice dried up. He swallowed a few times, blinking. Then he shrugged, shook his head, and looked up at John with pleading, watery eyes.

John felt an actual pang of anger. How could Harold look at him like that? As if this was _optional,_ a _choice_ John could be talked out of? As if John wouldn’t kill himself, happily, a hundred times over, if it meant this never had to happen? How could be possibly not _understand?_ The foil packets were crumpling in his grip. Then he realized.

Harold understood. All too well. And Harold wouldn’t fight him. Not much, anyway. But he couldn’t just _lie down._

So John pushed him.

Everything was simple now. Harold needed him to complete a task, and John was very good at doing what Harold needed.

Harold’s thin arms were braced against him, pushing but holding tight at the same time. John took advantage of the indecision and effortlessly rolled Harold onto his stomach. Pinned him down firmly, supportively, so he wouldn’t hurt himself with his half-hearted struggles. With one arm John dragged Harold’s boxers down to his ankles.

The other arm he curled around Harold’s throat, and squeezed.

A sleeper hold, no damage to the airway, just steady pressure on the arteries — Harold had begun to kick underneath him — to cut off oxygen to the brain, knock him out for six minutes, maybe seven, long enough to — hopefully long enough for — the kicks were starting to weaken — just a few more seconds —

“Stop that, please,” Elias said sharply. “John, I consider myself a patient man. But I’m going to have to make that _strike one.”_

Grieved but unsurprised, John let go of Harold’s throat, felt him wriggle back to alertness, gasping. Hard shivers were chasing up and down his back. He must have dipped into unconsciousness before John let him go, because he asked with hopeful surprise, “Is it over?”

John suppressed the urge to bury his face between Harold’s shoulder blades and moan.

Instead he rose to a straddling kneel behind Harold, gripping the naked thighs between his own to hold him in place. He shoved his own trousers down to his knees and pulled his soft cock out of his briefs. He felt the hopeful tension bleed out of Harold’s body. The last traces of resistance.

John closed his eyes and began pulling at himself, blacking out the bright lights, the scratchy mattress, everything except the slide of skin on skin. He opened a packet, drizzled lubricant on himself. Harold was breathing light and quick. Arranging his wrists under his forehead to support his neck. 

Finally John was ready for the condom. He kept jerking himself, harder, faster, wanting to bring himself as close as he could before — to make it quick, shorten it as much as possible — he let one hand drift to Harold’s wrist, tapping rapid blanks onto the pulse point, then slowing down to start a pattern: _Dot._ _Dot dash dot dot. Dot dot. Dot dash—_

“Strike two, John.”

John shuddered at the warning voice in his ear, his erection shrinking a little.

He had to do this now. He had to get this _done._

John tore open the rest of the condoms, wanting every drop of lubricant he could get. He gave himself three more furious strokes and then he spread Harold open and sank inside, rocking softly. Harold whined, made an involuntary effort to squirm away, and again John’s cock threatened to quit.

This was going to be impossible _. Impossible._

This wouldn’t have been a problem five years ago. He’d been younger, of course, but more importantly he’d been _different_. Before quitting the agency — before _Harold —_ he’d been accustomed to this kind of thing. Accustomed to using others, and being used in return. Sex was a way to get closer to marks and assets, close enough to trick or steal or hurt. Sometimes he’d stare up at the ceiling, or down at whatever surface he’d been bent over, and wonder who exactly was raping who.

That wasn’t a question he wondered now.

John set his mouth and propelled himself back into those memories, letting them dig in — hotter and sharper and deeper than he had since Harold found him. Letting himself go go blank and grim. Fuck into Harold with smooth efficiency. He picked up the pace, heard the slap of his sweat-wet skin against Harold’s, and it was helping, but it wasn’t enough, it would never be _enough —_

 _—_ Harold had gone boneless beneath him. John hoped he had passed out with shock. He thrust harder and rougher, trying to finish it, but Harold gasped and arched beneath him, conscious after all _—_

— John switched to different memories, tried picturing faces — no, that didn’t help — bodies, _parts_ — from his past, whether actually known or only imagined — his first girlfriend’s thighs, his first boyfriend’s shoulders — that army fuck buddy with the ridiculous abs — the breasts and bellies and curves of various Bond girls — Kara’s smile, on the rare occasions when he’d fooled himself into thinking she really cared about him — Zoe — Joss — god help him, _Jessica_ — nothing nothing _nothing._ No sparks, no flames, only ashes.

What he tried _not_ to think about — _fought_ thinking about — were the most recent fantasies. The ones where he unbuttoned layers of luxurious cloth in the warm, dusty light of the library — slid his hands inside to feel heat and endearing fragile softness — sank his nose into a warm neck, felt strong hands in his hair, breathed in the fresh savor of expensive soap — the same scent that was in his nostrils now, mixed with the tang of fear-sweat — his cock jumped and his hips surged and — no no _no,_ he couldn’t, he _couldn’t,_ not like this, _never_ like this —

Five years ago, John had also been accustomed to faking it. He arched his back suddenly, convincingly, snapped his hips forward a few more sloppy times, then went still with a swallowed grunt, the bouncing mattress falling quiet. Breathing heavily, he withdrew.

Harold was on his back in an instant, then in a teetering sit on the edge farthest from John, all laser-focus on pulling his shorts back up. John stared at him numbly as he pushed himself, condom and all, back into his briefs. He zipped up and stood, already going soft in his pants.

“There’s a trashcan by the nightstand,” Elias told him solicitously. “No need for such a hurry; that can’t possibly be comfortable.”

“It’s fine,” John said. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harold jump at the sound of his voice.

“Did I say you could talk?” Elias asked with a sudden freezing anger. “The _condom,_ John. Leave it in the trashcan, please.”

Slowly, expressionlessly, John obeyed, making no effort to either reveal or hide the fact that the condom was dry.

“I’m very disappointed,” Elias said, after a pause. “And that’s strike three, I’m afraid.”

The door opened and Scarface entered, armed, and flanked by the two men from the hall. They didn’t look so sullen anymore. The shorter one was rumpled, unshaved, with hair too gray for his face. He barely glanced at John before settling hot, zealous eyes on Harold, sweeping him from his wrinkled socks to his still-fogged glasses.

“Elias,” John whispered, ready to promise, or threaten. Everything, anything.

“Yes, John?”

“I did what you—”

 _“No,_ John, you tried to _cheat_. Again.”

Harold was hunched over his bare knees, arm frozen in its reach for his trousers on the nightstand. Moving his eyes between the hard face of the gray-haired man and the smooth, serene expression of the other — an older, fatter man. Who suddenly _smiled_ at him.

“Nice suit,” gray-hair sneered.

“Elias...” John said.

“HEY!” Scarface shouted, sending a tinny echo around the small room. He cocked the gun and leveled it at Harold’s head. “Boss said to shut up.”

John spread his fingers weakly, acquiescent.

“Good. Now back up against the wall. All the way.”

He walked backward until his heels hit the wall, making the mirror behind him tremble.

“You,” Scarface said to Harold. “Lie down. And turn over.”

Harold hesitated only briefly before slowly easing himself back down flat against the cot. Scarface kept the gun trained on him.

“Elias,” John whispered helplessly, eyes on the gun, “you said you wouldn’t kill us. Wouldn’t kill him.”

“I did. And I won’t. But Anthony’s going to keep the gun out. Just in case.” Scarface was letting the shiny muzzle drift from the back of Harold’s skull down to his forehead. It finally came to rest at an oblique angle over his brow bone. “I think Harold would prefer to keep that eye, don’t you?”

Scarface threw a look at John, his dark eyes unreadable above a faintly curled lip.

“Elias...” John tried again.

“Do you realize you’ve been talking to me, all this time, without permission, John? I’ve had to attach an additional penalty. I’m sending him along now. Don’t make me add more. In fact I think I’d better remove your temptation to _cheat_ altogether. Take the earpiece out, John. And destroy it.”

John raised a hand to his ear, and at that moment Harold turned his head slightly, one wide blue eye catching John’s. There was a bottomless, unreasoning terror there, a cry for help. Not for rescue, but for support. For strength.

John felt a cool, clean, quiet rushing in his head. The earbud made a tiny electric buzz when he stomped it into the concrete. His hands relaxed at his sides.

Looking relieved, Scarface nodded at the two men looming at the foot of Harold’s cot.

“Okay, Mel,” he said.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is loved. <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the above warnings. This chapter contains extremely graphic material and highly offensive language. For a brief, non-graphic sketch of this chapter's contents, see author's notes below.

...

 

The gray-haired man — Mel — came forward, head lowered like a bull’s. His hands were shaking as he grabbed for Harold’s hips, fumbled roughly at his boxers. The seams ripped and John saw something unravel in Harold at the noise; he bellied forward, reaching for the cot’s edge, but Mel pinned him with a knee in the back.

 _Don’t — please — his spine—_ John didn’t say. Didn’t rush forward to show him just how much damage a well-placed knee could do.

While Harold wheezed under his weight, Mel grimly unrolled one of the opened condoms John had left scattered on the mattress.

“Do you have any idea,” Mel said, readying himself, “what they’re gonna do to my boy in there? A nineteen-year-old, in prison? Did you even _think_ about that, you self-righteous piece of _shit?”_

Harold cried out as the man breached him with a clumsy shove, then impaled him with another. He set a punitive rhythm while Harold’s hands kneaded the cheap cloth underneath him, gnarling it, sometimes wrenching at it in abortive attempts to pull himself forward, away — stopped short each time by a nudge of Scarface’s gun. Tears fell steadily onto the glossy lavender back of Harold’s vest, shaken loose from the tip of Mel’s nose with the force of each thrust.

“You little bastard,” he muttered over and over. “You little _cunt.”_

He bared his teeth, snarling out a sob when he finally finished. Silence hung heavily in the sudden absence of the mattress springs’ tortured screeching. Mel pulled out, his thick cock bobbing as it weakened, the condom’s latex streaked with blood.

On the edges of John’s vision, stars started sparking with every pump of his heart.

The fatter man was moving to take Mel’s place.

“Hi, there,” he said, stroking Harold’s hip and buttock with a thick hand. “I’m Jerry.”

He petted and pinched for a few moments more before flipping Harold over onto his back. Harold gasped, reeling in his limbs sluggishly, weak as an upended turtle. When his glasses defogged his eyes fell on John. He flinched and averted his eyes, throwing up his arms to hide his face in the crooks of his elbows, his mouth a twisted knot of humiliation underneath.

Scarface blinked and adjusted his aim.

A soft splat, and pink-tinted semen spattered over Harold’s collar and throat; Mel had peeled off his condom and thrown it.

“I’ll go get Sebastian,” he muttered, and walked toward the door.

John could feel the heat of his glare as he passed, but he kept his eyes front, on Harold. He could smell Mel, though: sweat and rage and _blood_ and _enemy, danger, threat, target, mark —_ perpetrator _—!_

“Rich fucks.” Mel was edging into John’s space, dirtying John’s air. “Filthy fucking pricks. What do you know about it? About us? About _real life?_ What gives _you_ the fucking _right?_ Huh?”

Jerry was squeezing Harold’s thighs now. His fingers found the scars and explored, curious, pressing into them, _digging_ in. John leaned forward involuntarily and Mel snapped backwards, overly startled.

“Mel,” said Scarface. “Go get Sebastian. And Jerry? Get on with it.”

The door slammed behind Mel. Jerry palmed under Harold’s rear and dragged him a few inches down toward the foot of the cot. He pushed the trembling legs up and open, frowning at the strange stiffness in Harold's left hip. When he tried to force them farther apart, Harold _shouted;_  Jerry relented and wedged himself in. He had watched Mel and Harold through slitted eyes, touching himself. Now hard, bare, he pushed in deep and groaned, rolling his hips luxuriously.

Harold spasmed and released a pent-up hiccup of a sob, his hands turning to claws over his face, twisting painfully into his hair. Jerry pulled Harold’s hands down, exposing the blotchy red and white of his face, the agonized crimps in the papery skin of his brow.

“Wanna see you,” he explained breathily.

He ran his hands over Harold’s trembling belly, pushing the sweaty shirttails out of the way to drag his fingers through the furze of hair. Then lower, over his groin, where Harold was exposed and swollen from friction and adrenaline. He took Harold in one meaty hand and started pumping.

“Shh, don’t cry,” he said. “I’m nicer than Mel, I’ll make you like it, I promise.”

“No, please,” Harold whispered.

Jerry only grinned and pumped faster, scooping inside Harold briefly for some blood to smooth the strokes. The cot resumed its creaking as the heavy man rocked his hips harder. Horror alive in every line in his face, Harold stared down at where Jerry had him pinned and gripped.

“Don’t, don’t—” Harold said, reaching to push uselessly at Jerry’s hands.

Anthony leaned a little more weight onto the gun and Harold let his hands drop, curl into fists at his sides. He sealed his eyes shut and John watched the color on his cheeks rise higher and higher until his face crumbled and—

“There you go, honey. Told you,” Jerry said, pleased, when Harold spent in two long jets onto the fine brocade of his vest.

Jerry milked Harold through it generously, smugly, pulling out a lazier spurt, then another, pushing the dubious pleasure into pain. Then he moved his other hand lower and pressed two fingers into Harold alongside his own dick, curling them in time with his gentle thrusts, a knowing smile on his face. Finally Harold’s wilting cock twitched and leaked again, thin and watery. It dribbled sideways down a crease in his belly fat and disappeared into the mattress.

“You’re just a perfect little slut, aren’t you,” he cooed, and slowly tilted forward to cover more of Harold, letting his weight settle and push the frail body beneath him deeper into the mattress. Harold turned his face as far away as his neck allowed, and then let himself whimper while Jerry fucked him slowly, thoroughly.

Mel returned with another of Elias’s men, a short redhead with botanical tattoos.

“Jesus, Jerry. You making a movie? Shoot already, Sebastian’s here.”

But Sebastian waved his hand casually, a lit cigarette nestled between the Hawaiian plumerias etched across his knuckles.

“Naw, no worries, Jer. You just keep, ah, doing your thing. I was actually thinking his mouth looked pretty good,” he added, unbuckling his belt. “Push him up a little bit, so his shoulders hang off the bed — no, the other way — yeah, so his pretty boyfriend here can watch his face while I fuck it.”

“That’s not his boyfriend,” Jerry said, vaguely petulant, but he did as he was told without breaking rhythm.

Sebastian caught the back of Harold’s head as it was pushed past the edge of the mattress. He lifted a leg and straddled him, his thighs either side of Harold’s throat. He took a drag off his cigarette and leaned down, blowing the smoke into Harold’s face.

“You try to bite, little bitch, you’ll regret it. I will take it out of your ass, and you will _regret it.”_

Then he calmly unzipped and fed his erection inch-by-inch down Harold’s throat. He didn’t thrust, just guided the back of Harold’s head with one hand, letting the carryover motion from Jerry’s exertions set the pace. He smoked his cigarette lazily, ignoring the coughs and gagging.

 _You’re choking him,_ John didn’t say. Didn’t yell. Didn’t scream as he beat into each of them the certain knowledge that nothing in the world was more important than _Harold Finch's unrestricted access to oxygen._  

“So I’m number three, yeah?” Sebastian asked presently. “Who’s gonna do him again, then? Supposed to be four, right?”

 _“I’ll_ do it, I’ll _fucking_ well do it,” said Mel, springing away from the wall and crushing his own cigarette underfoot.

“No,” Anthony said. “That's all. No more.”

“Boss said four,” Sebastian drawled, blowing smoke rings at the ceiling. “Something about _extra penalties_...”

“Jerry took too long,” said Scarface, who seemed to be thinking fast — he had an earbud too, John realized. Elias was talking to him over it right now.

“Hey. Hey, Anthony,” Mel was saying. “Hey, lemme just give him a facial then. Real quick.” His hands were inching toward his belt. “Let him fucking drown in it.”

Suddenly Jerry threw his head back, mouth gaping as his hips rolled in powerful circles.

“Aw fuck,” he said. “Aw _fuck_ yeah. _Fuck.”_

His rhythm stuttered, breaking apart, and then he was shuddering, his big belly going liquid and spreading out heavily over Harold as he clutched him close, grinding.

Scarface gave the nod to Mel and after a few minutes of sweating and cursing he was coming again, pulling his cock down at a painful angle, shaking it roughly to spit over Harold’s face, spattering him from jaw to hairline and thickly coating one spectacle lens.

Last man standing, Sebastian tucked his cigarette into the corner of his mouth and took Harold’s face between his palms. He stared down at him, the expression of calm concentration on his face intensifying as he fucked Harold’s mouth fast and hard. Harold couldn't make a sound; one arm had been shaken off the mattress to swing limply at his side in time with Sebastian's thrusts. Skin red and drawn, veins in his neck and forehead standing out. Hot tears streaming from the corners of both screwed-shut eyes.

Sebastian’s fingers convulsed in Harold’s hair as he finished quietly. He stood still for a moment afterward, swaying slightly on his feet, ignoring the spit and bile welling from the corners of Harold’s mouth. Then he pulled himself free, and there was a hiss as he extinguished the butt of his cigarette on Harold’s tongue.

The sounds Harold began making were not classifiable; more like barking than coughing, more like bubbling than breathing. He twisted and levered himself forward, head-first off the cot. Jerry whined; he’d kept hold of Harold, steadying him for Sebastian, playing with the shiny buttons of his vest. Still inside him.

Harold’s face hit the floor with a wet smack, his body following in a rush. He kept crawling, blind, until his head bumped against the nearest wall. Nosing into the corner, he tucked into it like a frightened spider, and went still.

John watched Harold’s heaving back as Elias’s men filed out of the room. Mel said something to him on his way out, and one of the others — or both maybe — laughed, or, made an answering joke, or — John wasn’t really listening. He was too busy measuring Harold’s breathing, charting every squeak and rattle. He’d aspirated some, but he was making plenty of noise; he was on his side, which was good; there was color in his skin; the — the bleeding didn't look _too_ bad — 

Anthony was still there, his liquid eyes fixed on John’s face. Only when John turned his head to look at him did he ease his finger off the trigger. He stepped around the cot nimbly, put his hand on the doorknob.

“Next time, you should take better care of your boss,” he said, and then he was gone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-graphic sketch:
> 
> Finch is brutally raped by 3 men: Mel, Jerry, and Sebastian. John is forced to watch. Afterward, they and Anthony leave John and Harold alone in the room together. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! Feedback is loved.


	3. Chapter 3

 

John wanted to bring Harold his clothing, but the nightstand was eight feet wide of his direct path to Harold’s side, and he couldn’t seem to make himself take the detour.

He knelt beside the shuddering body curled up sideways against the wall, face pressed into the corner. He eased Harold’s torso away from the wall slightly, just enough to check pulse and breathing. Fluids were dripping steadily from his face and pooling on the floor: vomit and semen and aspirated phlegm.

John leaned sideways, adjusting the lie of Harold’s bare hips to bring him into better alignment. Then he peered lower to check the bleeding. Moderate; no dangerous hemorrhaging. He stripped off his jacket and draped it over Harold’s lower body. Straightening his back, he sank into a cross-legged sit, settling Harold’s head onto the inner pad of his knee. Then he took his hands away and waited for the retching to stop.

He couldn’t think of anything to say.

Harold’s breathing gradually calmed to a soft wheeze, stuttered occasionally by a cough or rattle. His top arm was braced against the wall, palm flat, fingers occasionally flexing against the chipped paint in search of tighter handhold. Other than that, he was still. John let him be, ignoring the twinges that started running up his own back, the pins and needles breeding in his leg.

It wasn’t until Harold finally spoke, and John needed to answer, that he realized his face was wet, his nose clogged.

“John,” he rasped, his voice weak and sputtering.

“Yeah, Finch?”

“Are... they gone?”

“Yeah, Finch.”

“The... situation. Is... resolved?”

“Yes. They’re not coming back. We can leave n—when you’re ready. It’s over.”

Harold began shaking.

“I’m cold,” he said.

Of _course_ Harold was cold, shocky as hell, _Christ_ why hadn’t he brought him his clothes, _stupid_ —

Harold was cringing at the sudden tension in John’s body. John made himself relax and speak calmly.

“Sure. Sure, Finch. I’ll go get your things... or, are you, can you get up...?”

A soft, plaintive “no” floated up from the floor. Somehow, John didn’t think it was in answer to his question. He leaned in closer, heard Harold’s teeth chattering as his mouth formed the word “no” over and over.

John reached for the wall, covered Harold’s hand with his own.

“Harold, I’m sorry, but we need to get you off this floor. I’m putting you on your back now.”

With his other hand under Harold’s neck, John rolled him delicately out of the corner. Harold stretched out his hand after the wall, unhappy about losing his grip on it. He was trying to keep his head turned into the corner, his face hidden, but his stiff neck wouldn’t allow it.

“Oh, God,” John couldn’t help but whisper at the sight of Harold’s face, pale and sticky and bruised, red-raw in spots from rubbing against the cot. Flat and face-up, Harold blinked and squinted, looking past John, up at the too-bright lights.

John’s hand hovered for a moment over Harold’s shoulder; he had an idea of offering some reassurance before moving away to bring him his clothes. But he dropped the arm instead, used it to push himself up off the floor. There wouldn’t be any reassurance for Harold in John’s touch. Not now.

Harold’s trousers and jacket were still neatly arranged on the nightstand. John squeezed at the pockets. Empty: Elias had confiscated everything Harold carried, just as with John. Harold was still motionless when John returned to his side. Hesitant, John knelt down, Harold’s soft clothes gathered against his chest. Harold ignored him.

“I brought your pants and, and your jacket,” John said softly. “I’ll put them here and, just let me know if you need h—want anything.” Still no reaction. “I’ll go find out how to get us out of here.” He considered laying out the clothes on the cot, then folding them neatly on the floor—ultimately he decided to absent himself as quickly as possible, and left them in a heap.

The door was locked. John rolled the nightstand drawer out and off its casters, wincing at the sound.

“Loud noise,” he said, for Harold’s benefit, and then used the sharp metal side to bludgeon off the doorknob in two strokes.

Out in the hallway near the door lay their wallets, keys, phones in neat piles. And John’s gun. He pocketed them and scanned the area. Dim, silent, still. Nobody within John’s sense-radius — nobody, he suspected, in the entire building. Sunlight shining through a door at the far end of the hallway.

Returning to the cramped, stinking room made John’s gorge rise.

Harold hadn’t dressed. Hadn’t, as far as John could tell, moved at all. His shoes squeaked against the tile in his rush to feel for breathing and pulse. Harold didn’t so much as twitch. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, unblinking under the harsh fluorescent lighting, pupils shrunken under the glare.

“Harold?” John waved a hand in front of that flat blue stare. Pulse was steady, if a little fast. Breathing wheezy, but not labored. Hesitantly, he ran his fingers through Harold’s hair, checking for head trauma he knew wasn’t there. Snapped his fingers in front of Harold’s eyes, called his name. Finally forced himself to rub two knuckles over Harold’s sternum to check for a pain response.

Nothing.

“Okay,” he said to himself. “Okay.”

There had been a young soldier in Tikrit. During a surprise skirmish a grenade had detonated, annihilating another man—the kid’s best friend—in front of his eyes. He hadn’t missed a beat; he’d wiped blood and grey matter out of his eyes, shouldered his rifle, and carried out the mission. Later in the jeep the field medic had picked over the young soldier’s left arm, plucking out the shards of his friend’s bone that had peppered his skin like shrapnel. It wasn’t until they were back at the base that the kid had shut down, abruptly, in the middle of a shower, only half-rid of the gore.

“ _Post-traumatic catatonia,”_ the medic had said, flicking ash into the sand that night while he and John were out back sharing a smoke. “Seen it before. Temporary. He’ll be okay soon.”

 _Okay_ was a relative term, John had decided, crushing the half-smoked cigarette and going back inside. Some words got so relative they became useless.

John shifted his weight, reaching to shade Harold’s vulnerable eyes from the punishing light.

So. This development... was not ideal. But it wasn’t catastrophic, either. Might, in fact, make the next few hours a little easier.

Except for one thing.

“Harold,” John began. “I don’t know if you can hear me, if you can talk. But I have to ask... I need to... Harold, what do you want me to do? Who should I call? Somebody has to come get us.”

As expected, there was no answer. The possibilities sifted through John’s mind like desert sands in the wind. His first thought, even after all these months, was Carter. John swallowed that ache and moved on: Fusco could pick them up, or Shaw, or... should he call an ambulance? Or one of Harold’s criminally discreet car services? They could go to a little clinic, or buy off some random private physician — strangers, neutral, anonymous, clinical. Cold. Harold was carrying Mr. Burdett’s wallet today. There would be questions, but they’d figure it out.

Or, John could call Dr. Tillman. She’d come, meet them at a safehouse. Keep them off the grid. And then there was Shaw. John trusted her, and he knew Harold did too; when they’d returned from Italy, he had noticed a surprising new ease between them. The sort of amused, tolerant rapport that grows between mismatched partners when circumstances force them to trust, to test each other’s mettle. Shaw was solid; she wouldn’t cry or flinch or patronize.

But what would _Harold_ want?

“Please,” John continued. “Please, help me make a good decision. The choice is— _should_ be—yours _._ I don’t want to do the wrong thing... not after...”

John found that he was holding Harold’s hand, squeezing. The skin was cold.

_“Please.”_

Harold was cold, and he wasn’t responding, and the room was only getting colder.

John picked up Harold’s trousers, and started rolling up the legs. Gently, he lifted the jacket draped over Harold’s hips. A spike of miserable rage lanced through him at the dried blood smeared over Harold’s groin and belly, where Jerry’s hand had molested him. Nobody else should have to see that. But it would have to wait. He eased the trousers over Harold’s feet and up his legs.

It was far from the first time John had dressed an unconscious body. The last time he’d done it, it had been so he and Kara could load a Serbian spy into her car and push it into the river. Compared to nylons, wool trousers were a breeze.

A bit of color flashed when John picked up Harold’s jacket: the egg-blue pocket square was still neatly folded there, untouched. John drew it out and began patting down Harold’s slack face, trying to wipe away the worst of the mess. Without any water, there wasn’t much he could do. The eyeglasses he scoured mercilessly, polishing away Mel’s final insult.

He fastened a couple of the vest’s buttons, just enough to hold it together. Scrubbed uselessly at the soiled fabric. Then he tucked the blue square of cloth away into his pocket, along with the scraps of Harold’s boxers. They were both lost causes, of course, but he wasn’t going to leave anything of Harold’s behind, to rot in this filthy room.

Next was the tricky part. John didn’t want to carry an unresponsive Harold, a Harold who couldn’t tell him where it hurt. The idea of aggravating whatever strain had already been put on Harold’s spine and pelvis... well, it didn’t bear thinking about. And there was a vicious little voice insisting that to gather Harold up in his arms, to _hold_ him — would presume an intimacy to which John had no right. Not anymore.

It would be best to keep him down, keep him flat. John flipped the thin mattress off the cot and turned it over. He settled Harold on the underside where its surface wasn’t patched with sweat, and tears, and worse. He tucked both of their suit jackets around Harold’s shoulders, and gave the mattress an experimental push. It slid smoothly across the tiles, jostling Harold only slightly. It would be easy to push him down the hall to the outside door. After that...

John took out his phone. He held it loosely in his hand, tapping it against his bared teeth, eyes screwed shut. He sobbed once, helplessly. And then he dialed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback is loved. <3


	4. Chapter 4

==

 

“Holy shit,” Fusco said as John loaded Harold into the car. “Holy _shit.”_

“Shut up, Lionel,” John bit out.

“Yeah, hello to you too,” Fusco returned mechanically, all eyes on Finch. John was settling him into the passenger’s seat, which he’d levered all the way back. John nestled him in snugly, curled up fetally on his right side, weight off his bad hip. Facing away from them, out the window. John shut the door gently and climbed into the backseat. From there he could watch Harold’s face in the side mirror, keep a finger on his pulse.

John could feel Fusco’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror.

“You got that address I texted you?” John murmured.

“Yeah but—”

“Drive.”

“Yeah but—Jesus, is he okay?”

 _“Drive,_ Lionel.”

Fusco threw a mutinous look back at John before leaning toward Finch.

“Hey Glasses, you with us? You and Wonderboy on the same page here? Little suburb in the west Bronx — that where you wanna go?”

Fusco’s hand was reaching for Harold’s shoulder. John caught it in midair.

“Don’t touch him. Don’t talk to him,” John growled as Fusco’s face went blurry in his vision behind a spreading haze of red. His other hand was poised on the gun in his waistband, his lips raising into a snarl. “Don’t fucking _look_ at him—”

“Aright, aright.” Fusco threw Harold a sideways glance, his face creased with unhappy lines. “I’d just feel better if he was back there with you, is all,” he said, putting the car into reverse.

John let go of Fusco’s arm and shrank backward into the seat. It took a moment to get his throat working. 

“Trust me. He doesn’t want to be anywhere near me right now.”

 

===

 

“Where’d you get yourself shot this time, Reese?” Shaw asked in a bored voice when John called her and said to meet them at the med-station safehouse.

“Not me. It’s Finch.”

He heard her bolt to her feet. 

“What happened? How is he? What does he need?”

“He... he’s okay,” John said, almost choking on the word. _Liar,_ a little voice said, even though he knew that from a purely medical standpoint, it was true. Relatively.

_Liar liar liar._

“He might need a couple stitches,” he told Shaw. “Aspirated some vomit. And he’s... pretty out of it.”

Bustling noises were coming through the phone as Shaw got ready. John identified the sound of at least two guns being stowed away on her person.

“Out of it,” she repeated flatly. “Like, unconscious? Concussed? Drugged?”

“. . . not exactly.”

“The _hell,_ Reese? What aren’t you telling—”

“They roughed him up. Maybe hurt his back some, his hip.”

“They? Who’s _‘they’?_ Dammit, John, _what happen—”_

John hung up.

 

===

 

Shaw was waiting for them in the townhouse’s garage, a medical backboard under one arm, eyes hard and mouth set.

She had Finch’s door open before the car was in park, one hand clicking her penlight while the other felt for a pulse. She swept away the jackets John had draped over Harold’s shoulders.

“Harold,” she said, loudly, watching his pupils contract sluggishly.

“He’s not respon—” John started but Shaw was already moving on, picking up the orange backboard and motioning Fusco out of the car.

“Unresponsive, yeah, I got that,” she said coolly.

They settled Harold flat onto the board while Shaw and Fusco held it between them. John had balked at being the one to lift him out of the car. Shaw was the _doctor,_ after all; what if John twisted him wrong, _hurt_ him—

“You’re too tall,” Shaw had said, wobbling the board to illustrate how nicely level it lay between her and Fusco. “It’s okay,” she said in an experimentally comforting tone after running her eyes over John’s face. “You’ll uh, you’ll do just fine.” The experiment was short-lived; when John continued to balk at laying hands on Harold she snapped _“Do it,”_ and John had obeyed.

He watched her eyes dissect Harold’s appearance: the rumpled clothing, the sticky fabric and skin, the _smell_ of him. And then there was the small red patch left in the upholstery of Fusco’s passenger seat.

“Fuck,” she muttered, holding Harold tight to the board and shuffling backward toward the doorway into the house.

John trailed them inside, feeling aimless and unwieldy in the wake of their brisk, purposeful steps across the creaking floorboards of the old townhouse. He kept his eyes on Finch, taking in the gentle wobble of his soft stomach as they marched him down the hall, the way his eyes stared blankly up at the ceiling, not catching on the light-fixtures skimming by overhead.

The master bedroom, converted years ago into a miniature emergency clinic, was prepared: spotless, well-lit, equipment humming and ready for use. John was regretting not giving Shaw more details about Harold’s condition over the phone; she needn’t have powered up their portable x-ray machine, or laid out the surgical drill and _rib-spreader,_ for God’s sake. How long had she waited, pacing, wondering what horrors she might see when the car doors finally opened? Then John shook himself. This was _Shaw_ he was thinking about. She would have just wanted to be thorough.

“Scram, Lionel,” she said after they’d settled Harold onto the hospital bed. 

“Yeah, sure,” Fusco replied, rubbing at the furrows in his brow and looking anywhere but at Finch. “Right after I have a word with Wonderboy here.”

“Take it outside, then,” Shaw said, snapping on a pair of blue latex gloves.

 

===

 

Fusco’s fist left a decent-sized dent in the living room wall. Usually John would scold him for it, teasingly. Tell him Harold wouldn’t appreciate needing to hire a contractor. Now he just stared at the crumbled plaster and wished he could put another hole or twenty right beside it.

“So who was it?” Lionel finally asked, leaning his forearm against the wall.

John shrugged, silent.

“Look, I’m a homicide detective, okay? I know a gangbang when I see one.”

John scoffed. “You don’t ‘know’ _anything_ about this, Lionel—”

Fusco only raised his voice, redness gathering in his face. “And since _heaven forbid_ you take the man to a freaking hospital, and file an actual _report_ , that means I gotta go get these sick bastards _myself_ —”

“—so you stay the hell out of it—”

“—before _you_ go off half-cocked and get yourself killed and make Glasses wake up from this nightmare into a world where you’re fucking _dead_.”

“You should have more faith in me by now, Lionel,” John chided in a soft, dangerous voice. “What makes you think I’m the one who’ll end up dead?”

Fusco took a step toward him. “Because whoever these people are, they brutalized Finch right in front of you. _Finch_. And apparently there wasn’t anything you— _you,_ of all people—could do to stop them. And that makes them just about the scariest motherfuckers I’ve ever heard of.”

John shook his head, the fight going out of him. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You have no fucking—” He stopped himself, collapsed backward to lean against the wall. “It doesn’t matter what happens to me now.”

Fusco’s mouth was hanging open. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Go away, Lionel,” John said. It didn’t come out quite right; sounded more like a plea than a command. 

“Fine. I give up. But you call me,” he jabbed a finger at John, eyebrows lowered. “You call me if you need anything. If _he_ needs anything. I mean it.”

"We always do,” John replied tonelessly.

 

===

 

A gentle beeping greeted John when he reentered the bedroom. Shaw had a heart-rate and blood-ox monitor clipped to one of Finch’s fingers. Her penlight was out again, one hand on Harold’s pale forehead, thumb lifting one eyelid and then the other. She ran her hands carefully over his skull, then down his neck and shoulders, checking for breaks. John didn’t bother telling her she wouldn’t find any; Shaw would just check anyway.

“How long has he been like this? Unresponsive?” she asked softly, moving on down his body: arms, sternum, ribs.

“Sixty-seven minutes,” John returned, the accuracy earning an appreciative glance from Shaw.

“And how long did they have him? Since last night?”

“This morning. 7:30 maybe.”

She clucked her tongue. “Had already taken his a.m. meds then, probably,” she muttered, eyeing the IV stand beside the bed, as yet unused. “And they didn’t hit him? Knock him down or anything? Drug him?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“You’re sure?”

John swallowed, picturing Harold’s pristine appearance when he’d first seen him through the one-way glass. Dignified. Upright and untouched. Before John had laid hands on him. “Pretty sure.”

“Never strangled him?” she asked, softly touching the angry red fingerprints on Finch’s jaw and throat.

“Not like that. He was... they made him...”

“Choke and gag,” she supplied, face blank. “During the oral rape.”

John squeezed his eyes shut, and nodded.

“How many times? How long?” she drilled on, mercilessly.

“Not long. Ten minutes, tops.” John kept his eyes closed. It was easier that way.

“And he never passed out?”

He shook his head and opened his eyes.

Shaw sighed, blew a wayward strand of hair out of her face. “Okay. Help me get him undressed.”

John froze, the rhythmic beeping of the machines fading to a distant, tinny whine in his ears.

“I—I don’t—” he stammered, watching her go to work on Harold’s tie. When she started on his shirt buttons John tore his eyes away, stifling the sudden urge to strike, to snap her fingers to pieces before they could get to Harold’s skin.

She sensed the impulse and turned flinty eyes on him, kept him in her sights as she slipped her stethoscope from around her neck and fitted it into her ears. She warmed the chestpiece with her breath before slipping it under Harold’s opened shirt.

“Little squeaky. Not bad,” she said loudly, bringing John back to himself. “Hard to tell for sure while he’s out of it and can’t breathe deep for me. But his blood ox is okay. I don’t think the aspiration will be a problem.”

John realized she was narrating for his benefit—maybe for Harold’s, too, just in case. He appreciated the effort; usually she performed her examinations in vaguely annoyed silence. He helped her peel Harold out of his soiled shirt and vest and then swath him in a medical gown. A very _nice_ , high-threadcount medical gown, in a rich jewel green.

Harold had sniffed at the necessity of getting any at all; he’d spent too much time in them after his accident. “Iniquitous,” he’d called them. But Shaw had insisted. They were only _practical_ , she’d argued. “Well. Let’s at least get them in a decent color,” he’d eventually conceded.

Shaw cursed when Harold’s trousers fell away to reveal the layers of dried blood on his groin and belly, the smears brown now and flaking. She snapped on a fresh pair of gloves, reaching for a pad of medical gauze, damp with antiseptic. Began checking him over, gently but thoroughly — lifting and examining his penis, probing the skin of his scrotum, cleaning as she went.

John sucked in his breath. “He isn’t hurt there. They didn’t cut him or anything.”

Shaw threw him an unreadable glance and continued her examination. Harold stared at the ceiling, impassive.

“You could make yourself useful,” she said, nodding at the open package of antiseptic gauze and then flicking her eyes up to Harold’s sticky face.

Harold’s face. Of course.

John only managed a few pitiful dabs at Harold’s cheek before the smell of the antiseptic began to sting in his nostrils, suddenly intolerable. He went into the master bathroom and returned with soft, wet washcloths instead. The crusted fluids on Harold’s skin softened under the moist heat and John wiped them away very, very gently. He closed Harold’s vacant eyes briefly to cleanse them of dried tears; afterward they rolled open again immediately, their ice-blue emptiness making John start shivering, hard. He ducked his head and breathed deeply, letting the steady chirp of the heart monitor bring him back from the brink of panic.

Shaw was removing Harold’s shoes and socks. She dumped them in a trash bag along with his trousers and shirt and vest. John didn’t argue. He reached into his pocket and added Harold’s torn boxers and pocket square. Shaw stared down at them in the trash bag, something complicated happening on her face. Then she viciously cinched it shut. A two thousand-dollar sack of garbage.

Finally John took up Harold’s glasses from where Shaw had laid them aside. He’d already scoured them back there, in that terrible room, before Fusco picked them up. But that wasn’t good enough. In the bathroom sink he ran them under the tap for a long time. Polishing them dry, he reentered the bedroom to find Shaw had rolled Harold onto his side, bent one knee and propped it with pillows to give her better access as she sat hunched over, hands between his legs. Sutures and needles laid out on the tray beside her.

John’s stomach dropped. He felt cold and hot and then cold again. Eventually Shaw noticed his unnatural stillness and looked up at him.

“He wouldn’t want me to be here,” John choked out 

“Uh. I’m pretty sure he—”

“No. He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t want me here. You don’t understand. He wouldn’t want me.” Fat tears began sliding down John’s face, unbearably hot against his chilled skin. “He wouldn’t want me.”

“Then go,” Shaw said, her brows knitted in confusion. “Nothing’s stopping you.”

Nothing, except for the leaden weight that had locked down his legs. John’s feet felt impossibly heavy; his head impossibly light. It took all of his strength to drag himself away from Harold, out the door, and down the hall.

 

===

 

When Shaw emerged from the bedroom she headed straight to the kitchen. John heard her rummaging in the fridge, then the cupboards. When she joined him at the dining table she had two cold beers, a box of graham crackers, and a package of Oreos.

“Eat,” she said, sliding the crackers and a bottle toward his head where he’d laid it down on the tabletop. The cold glass bumped against his forehead. He nuzzled against it, the coolness soothing. The condensation on the glass had melted into a small puddle on the table before he spoke.

“How is he,” he murmured, eyes shut.

“He’s sleeping.”

“Sleeping,” John echoed, his fingers tightening around Finch’s glasses. He’d taken them with him on accident. He raised his head with menacing slowness. “People don’t sleep with their _eyes open,_ Shaw. Jesus, you left him in there like that? _Alone?”_ He was pushing his way up from the table. It was proving to be strangely difficult; his legs kept tangling with the chair; they’d gone numb without him noticing.

Finished with her own, Shaw snatched away the beer she’d offered him.

“He is _sleeping,_ John,” she snapped, punctuating the word with a savage _pop_ of the bottle cap, “because I _knocked him the fuck out_ with the best sedatives a billionaire can buy, because that’s what you do when you have a dangerously traumatized patient and an _actual goddamn_ medical degree.”

John glared at her for a brief moment, then put his head back down on the table with a sigh. Slid Finch’s glasses closer to his face, so he could see them better.

Shaw ripped open the Oreos and started crunching her way through them.

“So,” she said eventually. “You saw it. Everything. You were there.” 

“Yeah,” John whispered. “I was there.”

He watched her jam three cookies into her mouth at once. To stuff down some outraged question like _“Why the fuck didn’t you do something about it, then, you fucking idiot,”_ probably.  
  
“I couldn’t help him, Shaw,” he blurted in answer to the unasked question, his throat swelling around the words. “I couldn’t stop it. I just had to _watch._ I couldn’t stop them. I couldn’t do _anything_. Just like I can’t do anything to help him now.”  
  
Shaw sighed, tapping her blunt nails on the tabletop. “You could go get Bear,” she offered. She swigged her beer. “And maybe a pizza.”  


===

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are love. ^_^


End file.
